Reading B1+ Ruthless

RUTHLESS

Judson Webb was an American businessman. He had a comfortable flat in New York but in summer he used to leave the dusty city and go to the country. There he had a cottage, which consisted of three rooms, a bathroom and a kitchen. In one of the rooms there was a big closet. He liked his cottage very much, especially his closet where he kept his guns, fishing rods and other things. It was his own closet and even his wife was not allowed to have a key, for Judson Webb loved his personal possessions and got very angry when anybody else touched them.

It was autumn now and Judson was packing his things for the winter. In a few minutes he would be driving back to civilization — to New York.

As he looked at the shelf on which the whisky stood his face was very serious. All the bottles were unopened except one. It was placed invitingly in front with a whisky-glass by its side. The bottle was less than half full. As he took it from the shelf, Helen, his wife spoke from the next room:

“I've packed everything. Hasn't Alec come to run the water off and get the keys?”

Alec lived near-by and acted as a caretaker.

“He's at the lake taking the boats out of the water. He said he'd be back in half an hour!”

Helen came into the room carrying her suitcase. She stopped and looked in surprise as she saw the bottle in her husband's hand.

“Judson”, she exclaimed, “you're not taking a drink at ten in the morning, are you?” “No, my dear. I'm not taking anything out of this bottle. I am just putting something into it.” He took two small white tablets out of his pocket and put them on the table.

“The person who broke into my closet last winter and stole my whisky will probably try to do it again while we are away,” he went on, “only this time he will be very sorry if he comes.”

Then one by one he dropped the tablets into the bottle. His wife looked at him in horror.

“What are they?” She asked him at last. “Will they make the man sick?”

“Not only sick. They will kill him,” he answered with satisfaction. He closed the bottle and put it back on the shelf near the little whisky-glass. He was pleased. He said:

“Now, Mr. Thief, when you break in, drink as much as you wish...”

Helen's face was pale.

“Don't do it, Judson,” she begged, “the law does not punish burglary by death, what right have you?”

“When it comes to protecting my property, I make my own laws.”

She knew it was useless to argue. He had always been ruthless in business. She went to the door with a sight of defeat.

“I’ll walk down the road and say good-bye at the farmhouse,” she said quickly. She had made up her mind to tell the caretaker’s wife about it. Someone had to know.

“AII right, my dear,” he smiled.

Helen went down the road and Judson started to close the closet door. He suddenly remembered that he had left his hunting boots drying outside on the heavy table in the garden. So, leaving the door open, he went to fetch them. But when he wanted to reach for his boots he suddenly slipped on a stone and his head struck the massive table as he fell.

Several minutes later he felt a strong arm round him and Alec’s voice saying: “It's all right, Mr. Webb, it was not a bad fall. Take this, it will make you feel better.”

A small whisky-glass was pressed to his lips. Half-conscious he drank.